


Duty & Blame

by Poplitealqueen



Series: Marco Polo Drabbles [1]
Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: Gen, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:01:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5091707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poplitealqueen/pseuds/Poplitealqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you're expecting historical linguistic accuracy, I'm afraid you might be disappointed. I wrote this in half an hour, okay? Fifteen minutes of which were spent munching on Goldfish crackers and coming up with this summary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duty & Blame

**Author's Note:**

> I finally got some time to start watching Marco Polo on Netflix, and I gotta say...I like it! That being said, I only just finished episode two and for all I know it'll end up disappointing me, so I decided to get this snippet written down and posted while it was still fresh in my head.
> 
> I don't know what future episodes will hold, but from what episode one showed me, Niccolò is a bit a _lot_ of a dick. And Marco seemed way more calm about stuff than I would have expected.
> 
> Anyways here's Wonderwall.

In certain parts of China, they have a word for duty:  _zérèn._

_It sounds nothing like family._

Marco's first night spent in the bowels of the Khan's opulent palace - his first night after being sold off for a trade route - is a blur of ice and fire.

The look of glacial sympathy his Uncle barely spares him, and the feverish promise of his Father - the Father he had only  _just begun to know_ , his mind supplies dully _-_ that this isn't forever. He  _will_  return for him.

_Did he promise Mamma the same?_

The chilling smile of the Khan of all Khans as he watches Marco with all of his attention, seeing less a young man and more an  _asset._ He thinks Marco a worthy payment for passage on the Silk Road - a prize many have paid for in mountains of gold or bodies - and Marco  _should_  feel special, but he doesn't. All he feels is rage and terror broiling just beneath his skin like molten magma in his veins.

The frigid bite of the water he's drenched in comes next, washing his travel-worn body free of the dirt of a thousand lands; of trials he'd faced during his journey; of the fledgling memories he'd just begun to build with his Father. He can barely feel the hot burn as the ropes binding his wrists tear through struggling flesh.

The slide of the razor on his cheeks leaves him shivering. It shears away the sand-blond scruff he's become so proud of, leaving him looking young. Too young. _Nothing like Father once again,_ a small voice whispers in his ear, and it's only the pressure of a warm hand holding his head still that keeps him from turning away.

He cannot see the comforting cold light of the Three Sisters from his dark cell. He feels hot, traitorous tears roll down his cheeks.

In certain parts of China, they have a word for duty:  _zérèn._

_It sounds nothing like family._

He knows his Father was simply doing his duty. What more could one expect from an honest Venezian merchant?

But  _zérèn_  means more than just duty. It also means  _blame._


End file.
